20 Must-Read Thriller Novels

Chapter 8-3

Her voice contained both tension and relief. "They are all good

men, basically—and kind men," she said. "And they believe us.

That's the important thing, you know. Their belief in us… . Just as

you said that first day we met. We've needed belief for so

long … for so long… ." Her voice trailed off; it seemed to

become lost in a constellation of thoughts. Barbara had turned to

look up at Her Majesty.

Malone took a step forward, but Burris interrupted him. "How

about the spy?" he said.

Then his eyes widened. Boyd, standing next to him, leaned

suddenly forward. "That's why you mentioned all that about legal

immunity because of insanity," he whispered. "Because—"

"No," Barbara said. "No. She couldn't—she's not—"

They were all looking at Her Majesty, now. She returned them

stare for stare, her back stiff and straight and her white hair

enhaloed in the room's light. "Sir Kenneth," she said—and her voice

was only the least bit unsteady—"they all think I'm the

spy."

Barbara stood up. "Listen," she said. "I didn't like Her Majesty

at first—well, she was a patient, and that was all, and when she

started putting on airs … but since I've gotten to know her I

do like her. I like her because she's good and kind herself, and

because—because she wouldn't be a spy. She couldn't be. No matter

what any of you think—even you—Sir Kenneth!"

There was a second of silence.

"Of course she's not," Malone said quietly. "She's no spy."

"Would I spy on my own subjects?" she said. "Use your

reason!"

"You mean—" Burris began, and Boyd finished for him:

"—she isn't?"

"No," Malone snapped. "She isn't. Remember, you said it would

take a telepath to catch a telepath?"

"Well—" Burris began.

"Well, Her Majesty remembered it," Malone said. "And acted on

it."

Barbara remained standing. She went to the Queen and put an arm

around the little old lady's shoulder. Her Majesty did not object.

"I knew," she said. "You couldn't have been a spy."

"Listen, dear," the Queen said. "Your Kenneth has seen the truth

of the matter. Listen to him."

"Her Majesty not only caught the spy," Malone said, "but she

turned the spy right over to us."

He turned at once and went back down the long red carpet to the

door. I really ought to get a sword, he thought, and

didn't see Her Majesty smile. He opened the door with a great

flourish and said quietly: "Bring him in, boys."

The FBI men from Las Vegas marched in. Between them was their

prisoner, a boy with a vacuous face, clad in a straitjacket that

seemed to make no difference at all to him. His mind was—somewhere

else. But his body was trapped between the FBI agents: the body of

William Logan.

"Impossible," one of the psychiatrists said.

Malone spun on his heel and led the way back to the throne.

Logan and his guards followed closely.

"Your Majesty," Malone said. "May I present the prisoner?"

"Perfectly correct, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "Poor Willie

is your spy. You won't be too hard on him, will you?"

"I don't think so, Your Majesty," Malone said. "After all—"

"Now wait a minute," Burris exploded. "How the hell did

you know any of this?"

Malone bowed to Her Majesty, and winked at Barbara. He turned to

Burris. "Well," he said, "I had one piece of information none of

the rest of you had. When we were in the Desert Edge Sanatorium,

Dr. Dowson called you on the phone. Remember?"

"Sure I remember," Burris said. "So?"

"Well," Malone said, "Her Majesty said she knew just where the

spy was. I asked her where—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Burris screamed. "You knew all this

time and you didn't tell me?"

"Hold on," Malone said. "I asked her where—and she said: 'He's

right there.' And she was pointing right at your image on the

screen."

Burris opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He closed it and

tried again. At last he managed one word.

"Me?" he said.

"You," Malone said. "But that's what I realized later. She

wasn't pointing at you. She was pointing at Logan, who was in the

next room."

Barbara whispered: "Is that right, Your Majesty?"

"Certainly, dear," the Queen said calmly. "Would I lie to Sir

Kenneth?"

Malone was still talking. "The thing that set me off this noon

was something you said, Sir Andrew," he went on. "You said there

weren't any sane telepaths—remember?"

Burris, incapable of speech, merely nodded.

"But according to Her Majesty," Malone said, "we had every

telepath in the United States right here. She told me that—and I

didn't even see it!"

"Don't blame yourself, Sir Kenneth," the Queen put in. "I did do

my best to mislead you, you know."

"You sure did!" Malone said. "And later on, when we were driving

here, she said the spy was 'moving around.' That's right; he was in

the car behind us, going eighty miles an hour."

Barbara stared. Malone got a lot of satisfaction out of that

stare. But there was still more ground to cover.

"Then," he said, "she told us he was here at Yucca Flats—after

we brought him here! It had to be one of the other six

telepaths."

The psychiatrist who'd muttered: "Impossible," was still

muttering it. Malone ignored him.

"And when I remembered her pointing at you," Malone told Burris,

"and remembered that she'd only said: 'He's right there,' I knew it

had to be Logan. You weren't there. You were only an image on a TV

screen. Logan was there—in the room behind the phone."

Burris had found his tongue. "All right," he said. "Okay. But

what's all this about misleading us—and why didn't she tell us

right away, anyhow?"

Malone turned to Her Majesty on the throne. "I think that the

Queen had better explain that—if she will."

Queen Elizabeth Thompson nodded very slowly. "I—I only wanted

you to respect me," she said. "To treat me properly." Her voice

sounded uneven, and her eyes were glistening with unspilled tears.

Lady Barbara tightened her arm about the Queen's shoulders once

more.

"It's all right," she said. "We do—respect you."

The Queen smiled up at her.

Malone waited. After a second Her Majesty continued.

"I was afraid that as soon as you found poor Willie you'd send

me back to the hospital," she said. "And Willie couldn't tell the

Russian agents any more once he'd been taken away. So I thought I'd

just—just let things stay the way they were as long as I could.

That's—that's all."

Malone nodded. After a second he said: "You see that we couldn't

possibly send you back now, don't you?"

"You know all the State Secrets, Your Majesty," Malone said. "We

would rather that Dr. Harman in San Francisco didn't try to talk

you out of them. Or anyone else."

The Queen smiled tremulously. "I know too much, do I?" she said.

Then her grin faded. "Poor Dr. Harman," she said.

"Poor Dr. Harman?"

"You'll hear about him in a day or so," she said. "I—peeked

inside his mind. He's very ill."

"Ill?" Lady Barbara asked.

"Oh, yes," the Queen said. The trace of a smile appeared on her

face. "He thinks that all the patients in the hospital can see

inside his mind."

"Oh, my," Lady Barbara said—and began to laugh. It was the

nicest sound Malone had ever heard.

"Forget Harman," Burris snapped. "What about this spy ring? How

was Logan getting his information out?"

"I've already taken care of that," Malone said. "I had Desert

Edge Sanatorium surrounded as soon as I knew what the score was."

He looked at one of the agents holding Logan.

"They ought to be in the Las Vegas jail within half an hour," he

said in confirmation.

"Dr. Dowson was in on it, wasn't he, Your Majesty?" Malone

said.

"Certainly," the Queen said. Her eyes were suddenly very cold.

"I hope he tries to escape. I hope he tries it."

Malone knew just how she felt.

One of the psychiatrists spoke up suddenly. "I don't understand

it," he said. "Logan is completely catatonic. Even if he could read

minds, how could he tell Dowson what he'd read? It doesn't make

sense."

"In the first place," the Queen said patiently, "Willie isn't

catatonic. He's just busy, that's all. He's only a boy,

and—well, he doesn't much like being who he is. So he visits other

people's minds, and that way he becomes them for a while.

You see?"

"Vaguely," Malone said. "But how did Dowson get his information?

I had everything worked out but that."

"I know you did," the Queen said, "and I'm proud of you. I

intend to award you with the Order of the Bath for this day's

work."

Unaccountably, Malone's chest swelled with pride.

"As for Dr. Dowson," the Queen said, "that traitor—hurt

Willie. If he's hurt enough, he'll come back." Her eyes weren't

hard any more. "He didn't want to be a spy, really," she said, "but

he's just a boy, and it must have sounded rather exciting. He knew

that if he told Dowson everything he'd found out, they'd let him

go—go away again."

There was a long silence.

"Well," Malone said, "that about wraps it up. Any

questions?"

He looked around at the men, but before any of them could speak

up Her Majesty rose.

"I'm sure there are questions," she said, "but I'm really very

tired. My lords, you are excused." She extended a hand. "Come, Lady

Barbara," she said. "I think I really may need that nap, now."

Malone put the cufflinks in his shirt with great care. They were

great stones, and Malone thought that they gave his costume that

necessary Elizabethan flair.

Not that he was wearing the costumes of the Queen's Court now.

Instead, he was dressed in a tailor-proud suit of dark blue, a

white- on-white shirt and no tie. He selected one of a gorgeous

peacock pattern from his closet rack.

Boyd yawned at him from the bed in the room they were sharing.

"Stepping out?" he said.

"I am," Malone said with restraint. He whipped the tie round his

neck and drew it under the collar.

"Anybody I know?"

"I am meeting Lady Barbara, if you wish to know," Malone

said.

"My God," Boyd said. "Come down. Relax. Anyhow, I've got a

question for you. There was one little thing Her Everlovin' Majesty

didn't explain."

"Yes?" said Malone.

"Well, about those hoods who tried to g*n us down," Boyd said.

"Who hired 'em? And why?"

"Dowson," Malone said. "He wanted to kill us off, and then

kidnap Logan from the hotel room. But we foiled his plan—by killing

his hoods. By the time he could work up something else, we were on

our way to Yucca Flats."

"Great," Boyd said. "And how did you find out this startling

piece of information? There haven't been any reports in from Las

Vegas, have there?"

"No," Malone said.

"Okay," Boyd said. "I give up, Mastermind."

Malone wished Boyd would stop using that nickname. The fact

was—as he, and apparently nobody else, was willing to

recognize—that he wasn't anything like a really terrific FBI agent.

Even Barbara thought he was something special.

He wasn't, he knew. He was just lucky.

"Her Majesty informed me," Malone said.

"Her—" Boyd stood with his mouth dropped open, like a fish

waiting for some bait. "You mean she knew?"

"Well," Malone said, "she did know the guys in the Buick weren't

the best in the business—and she knew all about the specially-built

FBI Lincoln. She got that from our minds." He knotted his tie with

an air of great aplomb, and went slowly to the door. "And she knew

we were a good team. She got that from our minds, too."

"But," Boyd said. After a second he said: "But," again, and

followed it with: "Why didn't she tell us?"

Malone opened the door.

"Her Majesty wished to see the Queen's Own FBI in action," said

Sir Kenneth Malone.

DESPERATE REMEDIES by Thomas Hardy

About HardyThomas Hardy, OM (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928) was an English novelist, short story writer, and poet of the naturalist movement. The bulk of his work, set mainly in the semi-imaginary county of Wessex, delineates characters struggling against their passions and circumstances. Hardy's poetry, first published in his fifties, has come to be as well regarded as his novels, especially after the 1960s Movement.